Time again.
I have this sneaking feeling that working the crossword puzzle would, right now, be more fulfilling, and spelling falls exactly into place and we are all elbows this morning. And the day only cares that we are in it, flashed across the face of it like ink stamps applied too quickly. And question our choices in punctuation. No amount of turns around could make the quality of light more natural; with our backs to the world, any reason is reason enough to ruin the perfect taste of your tongue with sugar and smoke. And mark your efforts with ellipses as some sort of strange joke. The earth rolls, we pass water, daffodils bloom in march, we ache annually, the moon waxes, we wander aimlessly through imaginary orchards and the innate failing state of everything.
My love shuns the ego who exalts is, greased the hands who palm it observing its flit or unfolding. It knows the encroach of spring, it makes paper of fences, and warms as sun when there is none. My love is not upon sight or condition or reciprocation, is not articulate, is not a production, is not sated or starving, has no end nor has it begun. I want to be loved- don't you?
You made my morning, my afternoon, my evening, my night sting like pineapple juice abrasions and you don't even know it. You made maps of the contents of my skull as if it was some newly conquered territory. Stick your flag deep into my soil and claim it for your own. Poison its birds and waters with your chemicals. Colonize every inch of it for your prosperity. This is the time of the rising seas, the descending skies, the stratosphere closing in to asphyxiate. And they'll run a magnet over my head, align its electrons with their systems, convene courts and pass judgment over the sins that trail behind me.
And how fitting that the one thing that has invoked in me a feeling I dare to dub happiness should now render me so foggy sad. Because I saw potential for something so incredible, truly for the first time I think; so tantalizing, so precisely the sort of redemption I had given up on (it having rotted away in some Harlem garbage bin).
It’s a direction but I’m still being pulled at by my subconscious and some inner wanting, but it's all locked up with things I can't say. There’s no telling what means which to whom. And even if I (would) could, the translation would twist it all up like my stomach. I need to go swimming. I need breath on my neck. I need hands in hands and some end to feeling alone here - when your mind convinces you that you are not, and throws you back to an empty dark room at 4 a.m., that's your brick in the face, that's your oversimplification, that's your reminder even when the photographs and letters are out of sight.